


R for Retribution

by chthonianCrocuta (lovesthesoundof)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesthesoundof/pseuds/chthonianCrocuta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ideas are cull-proof.</p><p>Written for the HSWC 2013, Bonus Round One.  Non-con warned to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R for Retribution

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the following prompt by fickle of Team Caliborn<3<Dirk:
> 
> _Condesce <3<Redglare_   
>  _"Fiat justitia ruat caelum!"_   
>  _\- Unknown_
> 
> This was supposed to be a bonus round fill of between, say, five hundred and a thousand words. Somewhere along the way it exploded into this. Thanks to fickle for the prompt, and my wonderful palhoncho Innsmouth for unwavering support.
> 
> Original post: http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/3493.html?thread=1392293#cmt1392293

The night you receive word of Mindfang's capture is not the happiest night of your life. You have led a rich, varied and above all very _long_ life, and in any case "happy" is not the word for what you feel when the news is delivered. No, you have no reason to be particularly happy that this particular menace has been snared. If anything, you've found her antics somewhat entertaining of late; aimless (and therefore harmless) as her personal rebellion is, she would have been more amusing left to her own devices.

But it is not due to her that your gut twists as you read the words, and it isn't amusement that you feel either.

Your gaze is fixed upon the signature - a cluster of spiked pen strokes in bold, defiant scarlet - and what you feel, for the first time in sweeps, is deeply, powerfully _alive_.

"Glubber fuck," you mutter to yourself, screwing the missive up into a ball. "Little beach just won't _die_..."

A large part of you hadn't wanted her to, of course. Not yet. Not like that, either - as much as Mindfang amuses you, you're not so fond of her as to use her for your murder weapon. You were testing. Just testing. Admittedly you hadn't expected the bitch to _pass_ , but now that she has...it's confirmation. Mere confirmation of what you already knew. What Neophyte Redglare has done to you demands no simple death. No. No such mercy will be shown.

Before you kill her - and you will do it personally - you are going to _beat_ her.

You're never a patient sort, but once you've ordered the official Imperious summons to be sent out you find yourself even more impatient than usual. The two of you haven't met in sweeps, not since she was small fry - and the smallest and shrimpiest of small fry she was too - and you want to know what she looks like all grown up. The vids of her Bar exams are mostly grainy, low-res affairs that suffer from interference and poor lighting, good enough to judge her stature (laughable) and form (outstanding) but little more than that, and you, you want to see her eyes. You want to look right into them and watch her crumble under the weight of your imperious gaze.

But she didn't do it at six sweeps, and part of you knows she's very unlikely to do it now.

It was a run of the mill public appearance. The rebellion led by the one they called Signless had been crushed, and you were taking a stroll on land to remind all the lowbloods who their Empress was. Nothing risky, not after so many cultists had been publicly put to death. No one would dare stand against you now, so you thought - and, indeed, the people cheered at your arrival. Attended by two dozen guards and surrounded by an at least outwardly adoring public, you grew complacent.

The lasso came as if from nowhere. The first you knew of it was a sharp tug on one horn that jerked your unsuspecting neck painfully sideways, making you stumble mid-stride. Four guards rushed in to steady you. The rest turned their weapons outward - but too late. The rope was already slack. You remember its colour, bold red. You remember the rough texture of it scraping over your horn as you ripped it free. More clearly still, you remember taking your first look at the knot.

It wasn't a lasso at all.

It was a _noose_.

"Next time, Your Condescension!"

The voice was high and sharp-edged, strident in the midnight air. Your guards, too well trained simply to fire into the already frightened crowd, scanned the spectators for its source -

...but you, you knew then and will always know that you saw her first.

She was perched on the limb of a tree, hunched and angular as a gargoyle. Her hair was raggedly cut at the neck, her clothes hung off her frame like so many torn drapes, but the look in her eyes - still too young to be coloured - was pure defiance. The blade she'd used to cut the rope was barely more than a knife for you, but strapped to her twig of a left leg it looked like a machete. The other end of the rope was still in her hands.

"There! In the tree!"

That was everyone else seeing her. You snapped out a gesture, telling your guards to hold their fire. "Strand back," you barked at the crowd. "Beach is _mine_ \- "

And yet, though you had your trident balanced in your hand, you didn't take the killing throw. You were watching the little girl and the red rope, and she was watching you. She held your gaze as she tied it into a perfect hangman's knot, and she didn't look away from you as she slipped it into her belt: the mark of a legislacerator in bright, blasphemous scarlet. With that noose, she named herself an agent of the law.

But it was not your law she served.

"He will have justice," she said, and with her hands she made the Sign - thumbs and forefingers pinched together, three fingers curved, one facing the other in the shape of a heretic's burning shackles. "We _all_ will."

The next few moments were...crowded. Someone screamed "CULTIST!" - which was enough to get the rest of the peasants screaming and baying - and you felt your need to kill outweigh your curiosity just a heartbeat before your trident left your hand. It stuck fast into the tree trunk. The girl had already absconded, and the throng of spectators was so damn thick about the tree that you couldn't see _where to_.

By the time you and your guards had got through the crowd, a few of you over the bodies of lowbloods too slow to escape the crush, there was no trace of her to be found.

That morning, you saw a young dragon flying towards the creeping light of dawn - and fancied there might have been a little dark speck riding on its back.

She dropped off your radar for several sweeps after that. You never forgot about her, though; you have eyes and ears everywhere, and you made sure they stayed alert. If the little lowblood girl with her pointy horns and her razor teeth showed up anywhere, you wanted to know about it.

As it happened, you stumbled upon her again quite by accident. Any remarkable new trainees are always brought to your attention, if only so you can indulge your love of violence vicariously now and again (because even an Empress needs her rest). You have spent many a pleasant hour watching little killers spread their wings, and though they aren't strictly part of the army you like watching the legislacerators train as well. Hunting down criminals is messy, punishing, and far too much like hard work. You prefer to watch that sort of thing rather than take part.

So there you were one night, watching the initiates undergoing combat testing - and there she was, right where she had as good as told you to look. You'd know those horns anywhere.

She'd been hiding under your nose for sweeps.

And she was _good_.

You sat, blindly chewing your way through a pot of grubsnacks, as she carved up everything they put in her path without apparently breaking a sweat - and when the tape was done, grainy and tinny though it was, you watched it all again.

And then you sent word to her trainers, and the word you sent was _push her harder_.

They did.

You spent three sweeps anticipating every tape, just for the chance to watch her push back.

Once she graduated to Neophyte the videos stopped. That irked you. The reports of her successes were dry; you took no pleasure in the _word_ of bloodshed. You wanted proof positive that she was still worth your attention. You wanted her to kill someone worth talking about.

So you sent her after Mindfang.

And now Mindfang is languishing in a cell, and you can hear the _tok tok tok_ of your latest attack beast's heels in the hallway, right on time. Apparently she lacks the coddamn decency to be _late_ like you wanted, and she hasn't tried to show off by being early either. She's followed your orders to the fucking letter. It's infuriating.

But then she rounds the corner, and her name is heralded to you - _the Neophyte Redglare_ , cod, there's a killer's name if you ever heard one -

...and the noose at her belt is red.

Your blood _seethes_.

"You're outta uniform, Neophyte."

They are the first words you ever say to her, before she's even straightened up out of her bow. You want her to flinch. She doesn't. "Special dispensation, Your Condescension," she answers easily. "The rope is lighter; it allows for practical employment in the field. I have the forms in triplicate if you'd like to review them."

You snarl. A sweep of your hand dismisses your guards and attendants, leaving the two of you alone. "Ta shell with paperwork. You knows why you here, gill."

"A legislacerator does not presume to know her Empress' mind," says she, cool as ice, "but the art of deduction suggests it has something to do with this."

From within her jacket (teal; her blood is higher than you thought) she takes a silver chain, and on that silver chain is a silver sign - the Sign of the Sufferer. Bold as brass she shows your enemy's mark to you, just as she did in her youth, and though you should kill her you only spit with disgust. "Do you even know water glubbin' _joke_ it is, you wearin' that? His heresies were damn clear. No krillin'. You done plenty 'a krillin'. Da fuck are you try'na prove?"

There's a soft _snap_ , and you blink in surprise as she tosses the broken chain to the ground. The Sign glitters on the tiles. "There," she says. "Destroy it if you like; I'd do so myself if I cared enough. In truth, I haven't worn the thing regularly in sweeps. My attraction to the cult was part of what I suppose you could call the confusion of youth, one piece of my struggle to find a path that felt right. It's been a long time since I believed in the word of the Sufferer."

You almost laugh. "You call attempted fishassination "the conchfusion 'a youth"? Glub me. You got _globes_ , walkin' in here an' sayin' that shit."

She cocks her head. You hate the red-tinted lenses she wears; they keep you from seeing her eyes. "And yet I remain unmolested. Curious."

It's about time you changed that.

You step forward, turning your trident in your hand about the point of balance. She steps to one side. The two of you begin to circle. You are face to face at last, you and she, and these are far from the first steps of your fated dance.

"You knew who I was," she says, low, calculating. "Where I was. What I was becoming. I felt your hand puppeting the masters, making them push me the hardest of all. You could have ordered me killed, but instead you made me stronger. It was you who honed this blade, Your Condescension, though only if you were a fool could you ever have believed you might some day wield it - and whatever else I may think of you I don't believe you're a fool. So the more pertinent question is, Your Condescension..."

Her smile has no mirth, only teeth. And what teeth. Two perfect rows, bright and keen as knives, worthy of the sea. You imagine their bite.

"...what are _you_ trying to prove?"

You flash your own teeth and twirl your trident expertly. The display leaves her unmoved; that irks you further. "What ebbery otter troll on this coddamn planet knows - that you ain't _nofin_. All you got, I let you have. In one _beat_ of your dirty li'l pusher I can take it all away."

"Then do it." She lifts her chin and spreads her hands as she circles you, offering her breastbone for you to transfix. Even through the lenses the look of _I dare you_ is clear in her eyes. She still hasn't drawn a weapon. Cod, she plays hard to get. "My life is nothing. All life is nothing in the face of what I serve. But I tell you this: even if you strike me down, my blood will rise again and come for you. The scalebearer will raise another, and she will wear my mark and follow in my footsteps until her blades find their mark at your throat, and you will know her by these colours - red and teal, teal and red. You will see my shades again, and once more hear the creed of the dragon's daughter: _fiat ivstitia, rvat caelvm; fiat ivstitia, pereat mvndvs_." The ancient language is heavy on her tongue; she speaks it like a prophet. "These words are older even than you, Your Condescension. Their law, not yours, is my gospel truth. I am the right hand of Justice, and I swear to you now that if you force that hand it will tear down the _SKY_ for the chance to crush you."

It has been a thousand sweeps since you took a threat seriously, but at this one you could swear your tyrian blood flows black. Your pulse is throbbing in your ears. Only supreme self-control keeps you from trembling with rage. "You _dare_ fuckin' act like you betta than me? _ME_?"

"You?" She speaks with a scoff, dismissive, but like yours her stance is low. Every muscle in her body is coiled and ready to spring. "You are great and terrible, your Condescension, but you are a _troll_. I, like the Signless before me and like many more who will follow after, am more than a troll. I am an _idea_. I am words made flesh. And unlike flesh, _words cannot be culled with a trident_."

With a scream of rage that should shatter every glass object in the palace, you charge. Her blades come up in a flash to deflect your trident. Metal scrapes against metal, and you go barrelling past her like a moobeast past a matador. You're unhurt, but enraged. Anger doesn't stop you weighing up your options, though, and you've seen her fight a hundred times or more. She relies on being faster and more agile than her opponents; a great deal of raw strength is impossible to achieve with such a tiny frame as hers. You have no such disadvantage. You have speed and might all in the one package - and even if she sticks you right through your pusher you'll regenerate so fast it's as good as her throwing the weapon away.

Glass cannon, meet wrecking ball.

Your second charge is more calculated. One, two, three thrusts of the trident she parries, each one with more difficulty than the last - the strength of her arm against yours is negligible - and you've driven her all the way across the room by the time you make the fourth strike. She deflects it, but only enough for it to miss her throat. It rips through the arm and shoulder of her jacket instead, just grazing the flesh beneath. There's a dull _thunk_ as the tines of the trident pin her to the wall. The blade in her trapped hand is the edged one. Inside her reach, you have no fear of the other.

The trident will hold her. You let it go and wrap your fingers tight around her neck instead, and with your free hand you pluck those ridiculous red lenses from her face.

It is not the teal of her eyes that makes your breath stop in your throat. It is the _red_ of them - around each pupil, a jagged ring of scarlet, fire-like, mars her colour deep into the iris.

She is losing her sight.

Any other troll might have felt the sinking pull of pity. Not you. You know what blindness means in those who speak old words with weight: she is a prophet, true hatched, and her prediction may as well have been carved in stone since the universe began. You could kill her now, crush her skull or snap her neck or pierce her body with your trident, and she would rise again. She will always rise again.

You will fight her until the end of time.

Swept up in a surge of fierce joy, you press her body to the wall with yours and kiss her hard enough to bruise. The fresh memory of defiance in her burning eyes only makes it sweeter - but her lips part as soft as pity at the press of your tongue, and you hate that. You hate the thought of her pitying you. You hate everything about her. You hate the taste of her, like ash and steel, you hate the dig of her hipbones into your thighs, you hate that someone of her low birth should have teeth like _these_ , sharp enough that you taste your own blood even though she isn't biting you back -

...She's not biting you back.

She's not even _kissing_ you back.

Realisation creeps in cold and sickening. She hasn't struggled in your hold, nor against the trident. She's made no move to jab or swat at you with the dragon's-head rapier. She could have kicked you in the shins, or wrapped her leg around yours and scraped her heel down your calf; she's done neither. All she did during your strifing was to parry, to keep you from harming her. She never once attacked.

She's not responding to you at all.

You pull back slowly, unsteadily, and yank your trident from the wall. She's looking at you as if you've just said something inane.

"With respect, Your Condescension," she says dryly, "I don't hate you _that_ much."

It feels like a frozen knife to the gut. You almost curl around the imagined wound; you know your eyes betray you. You watch, your hurt and anger silent within you, as she sheathes her blades, straightens her uniform, and takes her glasses from your unresisting fingers.

"If you will pardon your servant, I have an execution to arrange."

Oh. You'd forgotten about Mindfang. You wonder if people will remark upon the tear in the prosecution's jacket, or if she'll have time to repair it. (Of course she'll have time. She comes and goes by _dragon_ , the bitch.)

"Forgive me, Your Condescension - I may have told you a little lie just now."

Your bloodpusher trips over a beat. Your mouth goes dry. You swallow, waiting, wondering, hanging on the leading edge of her unspoken word. Let it be hateful. Oh, cod, let it be hateful.

"I do still believe the Signless was right about one thing. We _are_ all hatched equal."

She offers you no smirk, no hint of cruelty, nothing that could bear out your hopes. She is as cold as the void between the stars.

"In the face of Justice, even _your_ life is nothing."

You are lost, struck dumb with useless anger as she walks from you. Thirty seconds too late your trident pierces the wall, eight inches deep, where her head once was.

You send orders to fill the courtblock with lowbloods, fodder for Mindfang's machinations, and you do not watch as Justice goes to the gallows. Your heart is too bitter with rejection to enjoy the spectacle, and in any case you know she cannot be so easily destroyed. You could kill her a thousand times and she would never die.

It will be many sweeps before she comes for you again.

Next time she will hate you enough.

Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> "Beneath this mask there is more than flesh. Beneath this mask there is an idea, Mr. Creedy, and ideas are bulletproof."  
> \- V, "V for Vendetta"


End file.
